


From the pain I have been frozen into (I beg to be free)

by Cap_Sweet_And_Salty_Sadness



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesiac Bucky Barnes, Blizzards & Snowstorms, Bottom Bucky Barnes, Car Accidents, Caring Steve, Halloween, Horror, Injury Recovery, M/M, Mystery, Psychological Horror, Some stuff arent tagged for spoiler reasons, Supernatural Elements, Top Steve Rogers, cabin in the woods, lumberjack Steve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-19
Updated: 2018-10-19
Packaged: 2019-08-04 14:36:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16348556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cap_Sweet_And_Salty_Sadness/pseuds/Cap_Sweet_And_Salty_Sadness
Summary: “You’re awake,” the man smiles, approaches to perch himself on the chair beside the bed. “Do you remember me?”"You’re the one who saved me.”“I am. It’s a miracle I’ve found you.”--On the run from Hydra, James gets in a car accident during a snowstorm. He's saved by a gentle and caring man who lives in a cabin in the middle of the woods. Why does he instantly trusts him, and why does he keep dreaming of a door in the basement that isn't there?





	From the pain I have been frozen into (I beg to be free)

**Author's Note:**

> I'm pretty excited to share with you this story, it's one of my favourite genres to write and there's never enough horror fics imo. I purposely didn't add some tags for spoiler reasons, but bear in mind that this is a mystery/supernatural story.

James has been tracked down by Hydra to his last safe house, has barely escaped before the squad forced their way in noticing him. He’s been too careless, has started to get clumsy just because he thought he could finally settle down for longer than a week. It almost costs him his freedom, and now he’s tiring himself out to put as much distance as possible from his last location. Where he’s going, he doesn’t know exactly, but he’s heading North and should be crossing Canada’s borders by the next morning. Green has given place to white a while back, the snow falling steadily.

He would hijack a new car every few hours and keep a low profile, keeping his metal arm hidden at all time, just in case a street camera caught it. He hasn’t slept in days but still feels too nervous to stop, always looking behind to make sure he’s not being followed, and the one time he forces himself to take a power nap he thinks he hears gunshots just as he’s about to fall asleep.

The last car he’s stolen, a Peugeot 405, is old. It keeps making these odd noises every now and then and starts vibrating a lot for no reason, and it hard to keep the car straight when the weather turns into a snowstorm.

James has planned to hijack a new car at the nearest gas station or any other relatively public location he could act without being noticed, but he’s currently on an old beaten road leading up a cliff in the middle of nowhere and the blizzard is getting worst by the minute, bursts of strong wind keep steering the wheel on the left.

His stolen phone isn’t much help either. The GPS has stopped working about 300 kilometers ago, so he’s missed the last exit, couldn’t see ahead enough to see the signs for it, and he doubts there’ll be another one for a while.

It’s so cold, and even though he should be used to it, he hates it. His teeth chatter, his flesh hand has gone stiff, his metal one has started acting up and he can’t feel his nose anymore. Just because he’s been too stubborn to stop at the last mall he’s come across when he thought he recognized one of those black vans.

Where the hell is he? Keeping a hand on the steering wheel, he fetches the cellphone he ditched in the glovebox. Maybe it has reception this time, can help him escape the snowstorm.

Later he wonders why he’s so focused on escaping Hydra when the danger is immediate. Has he been blindsided by the fear of his handlers? Maybe the fear or the hunger or the exhaustion, or a mix of everything renders him numb enough to not realize he’s too close to the edge of the cliff until it’s too late.

It happens so fast. Another rush of snow makes him look up and he tries to correct, but he’s too rough and abrupt. One of the car’s wheels slips off the road and brings the whole car down the cliff.

James remembers his seat belt isn’t on right before the first somersault, but before he can even think of buckling it on, he’s lifted off his seat as the car rolls its way downhill. The airbag spurts in his face at the first impact but it’s not enough to keep him in place, even if he tries to hold himself to a seat with his metal hand, only to rip it. He’s thrown around until a roll sends him head first through the windshield, and he flies.

 

He wakes up with a start and groans as pain erupts pretty much all over his body. Everything  hurts. He’s not lying in the middle of a ditch and on the verge of hypothermia though, but immersed under layers of covers. Someone rescued him, or captured him back.

Opening his eyes is difficult and his head is fuzzy, his face feels awful and like he hit a brick wall.  The serum will quickly heal him, the pain isn’t important and will only make him weaker if he focuses on it, or on the panic that grips him at his own helplessness.

He needs to find out where he is, and who’s rescued him.

So he fumbles with sloppy fingers to remove whatever’s been sitting on his swollen eyes and throws the wet cloth away to look around with a blurry vision. He probably has a concussion, on top of everything else.

He’s in a bedroom. A small one, with barely any furniture, but the walls decorated with vibrant paintings and sketches of people and sceneries. The window gives way to the still ongoing snowstorm, which means he hasn’t been sleeping for long and he’s still in the same area. The howl of the wind is almost comforting, now that he’s not in the middle of the storm.

There’s a desk but James can’t see what’s on it from laying down, so he pushes himself up the mountain of pillows, gritting his teeth as more pain threatens to make him throw up. The feeling of being stuffed and trapped is too much and he pushes the covers away, only to stop at the sight of his body.

His cuts have been carefully treated, his ribs taped, and when he checks his legs, a splint has been installed on one of them. Hydra has never cared enough to let his body heal before putting him back in cryo, so at least it settles him somewhat to know it’s not them who found him. He quickly checks in his boxers to see if everything’s in order at least in there. The package is fine, fortunately.

He tries to remember what happened between the car crash and him waking up. A man has saved him, he can still hear his comforting voice close to his ear, his strong arms carrying him. He remembers begging him not to take him back, and the man reassuring him he’s safe now.

As if on cue, the door of the bedroom opens and in walks a tall blond man, his thickly muscled chest making his flannel shirt distractedly tight. Not that James minds the sight. With the beard and the slicked back hair, he makes a very handsome savior.

“You’re awake,” the man smiles, approaches to perch himself on the chair beside the bed, close but not hovering. James appreciates it. “Do you remember me?”

James’ mouth is dry, parched even, and there’s a glass of water on the bedside, but when he tries to use his flesh hand to take it, it’s too weak and he almost spill the water everywhere. The man helps him with the same patient, calm expression, and James watches him as he drinks. He’s beautiful. His blue eyes are kind, but there’s an air of sadness about him too.

A particularly strong burst of wind shakes the house, snowflakes sticking to the frame of the window to hide the world away.

“Thank you,” James manages to say after gulping the water. “You’re the one who saved me.”

The man puts back the glass on the beside and retrieve the cloth James has discarded. It leaves a damp spot on the covers. “I am. It’s a miracle I’ve found you.”

“Huh. I guess so.” James inspects his metal arm, miraculously whole, but his shoulder is aching much more than usual from when he tried to stop himself from becoming the unwilling participant of a roller coaster. He feels weak and just wants to go back to sleep.

“Would you like some soup? You’ve been out for a few days, you must be hungry.” At the mention of food, James’ stomach grumbles loudly and the man chuckles. He gets to his feet. “I’ll be right back. My name’s Steve by the way.”

“James, and thank you.”

James dozes some more while Steve is preparing his food, and he wakes up to Steve coming back with a bowl of steaming soup and still warm bread. He takes Steve’s advice and eats slowly, careful with his flesh index and middle fingers taped together. He feels better once he’s finished, full and warmer than ever. He settles back into the fluffy pillows, stares at Steve who takes the tray away. He doesn’t know why, but his instinct tells him it’s okay to trust him, that it’s safe here.

He hopes his instinct’s right.

“Thank you,” he says again, flatly. He doesn’t how else to express his gratitude. Steve nods at him with a smile and adjusts his blankets before walking out. James quickly falls back asleep.

He doesn’t dream, doesn’t wake up with a scream and remains of yet another nightmare lingering behind his eyelids. He wakes up to his body aching, but not as much as his bladder. He huffs and throws the covers to the side, somehow fatigued from doing this alone

Well, this will be awkward to go to the bathroom, with the fact he has no clue where it is to begin with.

He forces his legs out of the bed, involuntary letting out a groan when he sets them down. He grits his teeth and gets up, helping himself with the wall. He’s able to take one step forward before collapsing to the floor with a thud. His ribs erupts with pain, and he’s sure he’s made them worse. He lays there for a moment, staying there still hurting him but unable to move.

Steve is suddenly there, carefully helping him up. “How did you end up here?” He asks, not unkindly. His hair is unruffled and his cheek has a pillow wrinkle. James has probably woken him up. He leans in his warm side for support, takes shallow breaths in and out not to further disrupt his ribs.

“I wanted to go to the bathroom,” he admits, almost shameful. Being in Hydra’s hands always meant to never show fear or weakness, so being injured in a stranger’s house is difficult right now, even if said-stranger rescued him and is now taking care of him.

“Oh, it’s alright. I can help you, if you let me.”

“I… Yes. Please.”

The next ten minutes are bad. Sadly it’s not the worst James has been reduced to do as The Asset. There’s specks of blood in his urine, but it doesn’t hurt, and his kidneys must be healed by now.

It’s when he washes his hands and almost falls over that Steve steps in the small bathroom. James rests against him with a pang of shame, and he bites his lip hard until the sudden urge to cry goes away.

“You okay?” Steve murmurs, keeping him upright with an arm around his waist, probably the only place that isn’t injured.

James takes a deep breath. Steve smells good, earthy. “I don’t think I can walk the way back.”

“I’ll help you, if that’s fine with you?”

After James nods, Steve carries him back to the bedroom, gives him time to look around the house. It’s a cabin, the walls made of sturdy wood, and furnished very basically but with the same kind of sketches and paintings the bedroom has. There’s a makeshift bed on the sofa.

“You live alone in the middle of the woods?” James asks once he’s settled back under the covers, comfortably warm with his own body heat. Steve brings him another glass of water that James makes quick work of emptying.

“There’s a town about twenty kilometers away, but I’m pretty much left to myself most of the time.” Which suits the man just fine, he doesn’t add, but James detects from his body language. He’s too tired to dwell into that conversation.

Steve is barely out of the room before he’s asleep again.

A couple days pass. Or at least James thinks it’s a few days. He wakes up a bit before dawn of his third day here to silence outside. He’s able to get on his feet this time without everything hurting too much, even with the splint. He watches the sun rise, bright colours lightening the sky. He gets to the bathroom on his own. It doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt doing so, but he’s used to pain.

Steve appears just as he’s stepping in the kitchen, his hair brushed back and his beard immaculate and wearing another tight plaid button down shirt. James prefers not to think about his own appearance, he must looks terrible.

“Good morning,” Steve says with a small smile. His large hand settles on his shoulder, and while he normally hates being touched, Steve has only been friendly and selfless so far, and it feels nice.

“Good morning.” James smiles tentatively back.

“Looks like you needed the sleep, you look so much better already. Think you’d be up for a bath while I make us some food?”

James nods because, fuck, he smells and he still has dried blood in places Steve hasn’t dared to reach. It’s a bit of a challenge to fit in the bath without getting his splint wet, but Steve brings him a low stool for him to put his foot on.

James sinks in the warm water with a sigh, his muscles already relaxing. He does an inventory of his remaining bruises and bumps. They’re much fewer, and the remaining ones are fainting pretty quickly. The bones in his leg have set, and he knows from experience that it’ll be fine in less than a week.

He lingers in the bath until Steve knocks on the door to announce breakfast’s ready.

“I put some clothes for you by the door, they should fit.”

Considering Steve’s size, James has no doubt about that. “Thanks.”

Steve’s smell envelops him as he quickly dresses up. He’s come to associate it with warmth and comfort.

Dawn is washing out the kitchen’s pale walls and turning the smiling portraits hung on them eerie, the shadows long and distorted. James sits down at the table and feels somewhat useful to fill their glasses with orange juice.

“I hope you like oatmeal,” Steve says from the stove, his face cast in the warm light of the hood above it. When he serves him a bowl, wafts of cinnamon hit his nose, and he sees dried raisins and cranberries in there. He’s famished and it takes everything for him to wait for Steve before he’s digging in.

“It’s delicious, thank you.”

A glimpse of a similar breakfast, served by what he assumes is his mother surrounded by his sisters. He blinks and the image is gone. Another unlocked memory, one of many he’s had since he escaped Hydra and the mind wipes.

“Is everything okay?”

James realizes he’s been staring at Steve. He shakes his head. “Sorry, got lost in my head, not that your face isn’t worth looking at.” Wow. He used to be smoother than this. “Um… How have you come to live here?”

Steve shrugs. “Went to war, came back to everyone I know having moved on with their life, and I felt like I didn’t belong anywhere anymore, so I came here.”

James understands the feeling, although he can’t recall everything that he’s lost. Any war is the same, humans killing each other for reasons beyond themselves.

“The paintings and the sketches, you made them?”

“Yes. They’re a bit scattered around the house, sorry about that.” Why does Steve look skittish about that?

“Don’t be. They’re beautiful.”

“Thank you,” Steve says, suddenly shy. He’s tense too, his shoulders almost up to his ears, and James certainly doesn’t want to anger his host, so he changes the subject.

“Were you a nurse in the war? Or did someone else fix me up?”

“Oh no, I’m not a nurse. My ma used to be, but I spent more time as a patient, I was always sick.”

James frowns, confused. “But you’ve been taking care of me since I woke up. Shouldn’t I be checked on by a doctor?”

Steve scrapes the bottom of his bowl with his spoon, his jaw set in what James assumes is annoyance. He knows he’s prying, but there’s something going on there. Ever since he’s woken up here, he’s had this feeling that it’s too good to be true, that Steve is too nice and caring. Why has he kept him in his home and hasn’t driven him to an hospital or the town’s doctor?

 He’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“I’ve been left with instructions.” Steve’s voice is sharp, set with finality, and he starts cleaning up the table.

“I’m sorry to be a bother, I wouldn’t mind if you drove me to the nearest hospital,” James says, never intending to actually step in that hospital, but pretenses. “I don’t know how I can repay you, but— “

“Please.” Steve leans over to gently squeeze his uninjured shoulder, his fingers brushing the nape of his neck. His eyes are unguarded and _kind_. “You’re no burden at all.”

“I appreciate it. I, uh, I’ve been meaning to tell you…”

“What is it?” Steve’s expression turns eager, even if he tries to hide it by piling the dishes in the sink. James helps him as he tries to find the words and settles for the simple truth.

“I’m amnesiac. I don’t remember what happened before my accident.” At least he won’t have to make up a backstory.

“Oh.” Steve pats his shoulder again, looks away for a second with an unreadable expression. There’s that square jaw working again. When he looks at James again, he smiles gently. “Don’t worry about it. It’ll come back to you.”

He then excuses himself and disappears in a room he'll learn is his studio, his steps fast on the wooden floor. James doesn’t understand why he’s acting that way, warm one moment and cold the next. He doesn’t like it.

More days pass. James recovers. He visits the whole cabin one day to count all the possible exits; doors and windows and hiding spots. There’s the front door and a handful of windows on the first floor. The basement doesn’t offer any solace, unfinished and bare. There’s only firewood piled up against one wall, a cupboard filled and surrounded by boxes, and a window barely giving out any light at this time of the day. A large cellar spider is resting in its web near it. It freaks him out a bit after he stands there for a few minutes, so he only goes down there once.

He doesn’t sleep well, so he doesn’t anymore. His dreams are filled with Hydra, he’s scared they’ll find him again. Instead of falling asleep, he sits on the bed Steve refuses to take back and writes in his journal from the bag Steve has retrieved when he rescued him. Pages after pages of what he can remember from his old life, before the war, and everything Hydra has done to him.

He’s started to think Steve would protect him if they try to capture him again, for some stupid reason. He doesn’t get why or how he’s come to trust him this quickly despite the way Steve would sometimes stare at him when he thinks he can’t see him. There’s so much sadness and melancholy lingering around him, like a blanket he’s hiding under or that’s suffocating him. 

James still doesn’t remember most of his old life, but it’s fine. Perhaps starting anew is better, here, with Steve.

There’s this old loveseat in the living room that has seen better days, and every time it weakly creaks in protest of James shifting in it, he has this nagging feeling of déjà vu. He’s had a few of those here, but they don’t help him with acquiring back his memories; some of them on the tip of his tongue, threatening to fall out and yet unwilling to do so.

The fireplace in front of the loveseat is always stocked by Steve, so he’s very cozy when he settles in it with a book. That gives him a good view from the window, on the frozen garden and the edge of the forest a little bit further, but also directly on the wood cutting spot Steve frequently uses. Not that it influences this being his favourite spot, not at all.

This is such a different lifestyle from what James is used to, from the daily struggle of surviving. With his leg still injured, he can barely walk around without it starting to ache, so he usually settles himself in the living room with a book during the day to read and relax. Sometimes he’ll bring his journal and write here, or he’ll stare outside or in the fire when he gets too frustrated with his own brain.

Right now Steve’s not outside, he’s been in his studio for a few hours, but James knows he’s about to come out to prepare dinner and reluctantly accept James’ offer to help. He visibly doesn’t like when James puts weight on his injured leg, but has the decency to not comment on it and let James do what he wants.

James is engrossed in Stephen King’s _Misery_ when Steve steps in the room.

“Hey, done anything good?” James blinks up at him, takes in the smudges of paint along his arms and on his tight white tank top. Steve sits beside him and adjusts the throw on his legs.

“Sure did. How’s your shoulder?”

James rotates it, winces at the dull pain. “Doesn’t hurt that much.”

“Lies,” Steve says, and James wonders how he can always tell he’s lying, when he once fooled a lie detector. “Can I touch it?”

“Go ahead.”

That’s something Steve does too, ask for permission before touching him ever so carefully, almost tenderly. He’s so gentle, and James can’t deny his attraction when he places his hands against the heavy scars and begin to massage his shoulder. It relieves some of the tension in the joint and muscle, and James has to refrain from melting against him.

“How’s that?”

“A lot better, thanks.”

“No problem,” Steve says quietly and when James faces him again, his expression is openly fond, like he’s much more precious than he really is. James doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve that, to deserve him. Tentatively, he reaches out and touches his chest. His heart beats sure and strong against his palm.

“Is this okay?” He asks, but Steve’s needy look is his answer.

“More than okay. Anything you want.”

James pulls him closer and presses their lips together, swallows the small gasp Steve makes before he’s kissed back. He doesn’t remember being intimate with anyone, so it’s hesitant at first, but Steve follows his pace.

Steve is exuding warmth and attractiveness with his kindness and generosity and big muscles, his hands exploring the small of his back under his oversized shirt, and James would love nothing more than to climb on his lap, but he can’t with his stupid injured leg. Instead he touches the soft skin of his back and tugs on his bottom lip with his teeth just to hear that throaty grunt of his.

“Fuck, James,” Steve’s breathing is hard as he presses their foreheads together. His lashes are so long, James could count them. He wants to kiss him again, but hugging him is nice too, or are they cuddling? With the way Steve is currently taking most of his weight and stroking his hair, he’s pretty sure it’s the latter. Still no complaint from him, instead he tucks himself more comfortably against him and just enjoys himself for a moment.

“I could brush your hair for you, if you’d like,” Steve says much later, after they reluctantly let go of each other to eat and it’s now dark, the cabin colder except for the living room. James is wearing a thick plaid jacket that Steve admits looks better on him, but James suspects he’s biased.

He doesn’t really takes care of his hair. He knows it’s long and knotty, so he usually just leaves it alone other than washing it. That might be the reason why Steve is offering, now that he thinks of it.

“Does it look that bad?”

Steve chuckles. “I’ve just noticed you always keep it in a bun, it must be tangled by now.”

James shrugs, starts to undo his hair. “Whatever makes you happy.” He sits on a kitchen chair, turns the hairtie between his fingers. Steve stands behind him to card his fingers through his hair from the front to the back, and it feels nice. Very nice, in fact.

Then he uses the brush and okay, James could get used to that. “It feels good.”

“Yeah? That was my goal.”

He continues for a few more minutes, careful not to pull on any knot, instead working them out with a patience James doesn’t have. He ties it back in a messy bun afterwards and lingers a kiss at the nape of his neck. James shivers and leans into Steve’s embrace.

“I don’t deserve you,” he murmurs. Steve turns him around to cradle his face, his blue eyes persistent.

“No matter what happened, I’ve got you now.”

James’ throat tightens, unable to speak. Instead he pets his beard and kisses the two red spots on his cheeks.

 

He likes being here. It’s quiet, peaceful, snow and trees keeping them from the rest of the world. He wishes he could stay longer with Steve, but in a few days he’ll be able to remove his splint and he’ll walk away. He needs to protect Steve from Hydra and from himself, even if it breaks his heart. He’d rather be away from him knowing he’s out there somewhere than to stay with him with the constant fear of losing him. He has to destroy Hydra, and maybe once it’s done, he can come back to Steve.

That night he dreams he’s back on the chair. A mission had gone badly, his objective hadn’t complied so he had to take care of it with his bare hands. He still could feel the frail bones crack in his grip. Coming back to base had been nerve-wrecking, as he’d failed to complete the task in the appropriate settings.

Some of the scientists operating the chair were mindful of his wellbeing through the decades, despite the odds, at least from what he could remember. Some others, however, weren’t. That scientist in particular hadn’t been nice after that mission.

James dreams of the pain the scientist puts him into before a new wipe, but he doesn’t know which is worst between the torture and the notion that he’s losing himself once more.

He screams around the mouth guard, chest heaving and body shaking in terror, but instead of another electroshock, there’s nothing.

He opens his eyes.

Gone is Hydra. He’s sitting on the floor of the cabin’s basement. His ass is cold and sore, as if he’s been sitting here for hours, staring at the closed door in front of him.

He wakes up to the sun beaming through the window. The details of his dreams rarely linger, only the deep unsettling terror that’s pushed him forward, but the last part remains. What does it mean? Why had he been looking at that door?

Steve gives him a heavy coat so he can follow him outside that day. The snow goes up to his knees, and walking is precarious, but he’s happy for the change of scenery. It’s quite cold, the air is crisp and he knows he won’t feel his nose in a moment, but the sun is streaming through the trees and Steve grins at him every time their eyes meet. Steve starts cutting firewood while James explores around the house, checks the garden from closer, pick up loose branches to use for the fireplace. It’s weird, he keeps having the impression that he knows this place, recognizes those cracks in the walls and the pattern of the floor, but he has no idea how it could be possible.

He returns to Steve, who makes an attractive sight, muscles flexing tight in his red vest, his cheeks flushed under his beanie. James wants to kiss them until they’re that colour for a different reason than the cold.

“Let me help you,” he says instead to distract himself. Steve starts to protest, something about his leg, but he doesn’t stop him from taking the axe from his hands. Chopping wood is tiresome, but clears up his mind for a time. He’s careful to lean on his good leg, and soon he’s covered in sweat and growing uncomfortable in his sticky clothes.

“You know you don’t have to pay me back for saving you, right?” Steve is making a small snowman a little bit further away, and he’s working on the head when James looks his way. He’s adorable.

“I’m aware. Doesn’t mean I can’t help.”

“So I’ve seen. You almost did the whole cord, we’ll still need to pile it in the basement so it dries for next year.” So it seems his metal arm can be useful for more than murder.

“I might have gone overboard.”

“It’s fine. I liked watching you go at it,” Steve says cheekily with an intent look. James puts down the axe and walks over to kiss his cheeks like he’s wanted to, hearing no protest from the other man. Instead he sighs and grabs him by the hips.

“Think we can both fit in the bathtub?”

Steve immediately pulls him towards the house, smirking. “Only one way to find out.”

They do manage to both squeeze in, which surprises James because he remembers it as being smaller the first time he was in it. Not that he should rely on the clarity of his memories.

Steve rests against the edge and brings James against his chest, caresses his back and presses kisses against his forehead and hairline. James rests his injured leg on the same stool than before and fusses about his metal arm until he’s hushed and he brings it down into the water.

James is content to lay against Steve and bask in the attention and the hot water, and with the citrusy smell of bath foam, he relaxes. He briefly has a flash of his mother making lemon pies when he was a teen. It smells just the same.

He explores Steve’s chest just because he can, drags a finger on a pink nipple, eliciting a soft gasp, and he brings his whole hand to his defined stomach. He’s tempted to reach further down and wrap his hand around his cock, stroke him until he’s hard and feels as good as he’s making James feel, but he doesn’t want to give him the impression he’s doing this only out of gratefulness. How stupid is he, to start having feelings for someone he’s known for about a week and barely knows anything about.

He’s crushing on the first compassionate person he’s met, how pathetic.

“I can hear you thinking,” Steve whispers, his large hand massaging his scalp. James hums.

“I was just trying to figure out my dream from last night.”

“A new memory?”

“No, at least I don’t think so. I dreamt about staring at a closed door. There’s no door in the basement, right?”

He feels the slight shift in Steve, how he goes tense for a second before he tries to hide it.

“Right. Nothing but firewood and things I need to get rid of, down there. Dreams can be weird, I wouldn’t worry about it too much.”

“I don’t know, it felt— Oh!” Steve grabs his ass with both hands to bring him closer and starts sucking a bruise against the tender skin of his neck, cutting short whatever he’s about to say. He places wet kisses up his neck and jawline, captures his lips in a needy, very distracting manner. Gone is his shyness, he seems determined on ravaging James.

“Stop talking,” Steve breathes between two kisses. “Come to bed with me.”

James almost falls off the bath in his hurry, and Steve laughs as he follows him out. They pat themselves dry before Steve leads him to his bedroom, pushes him on his bed and covers him with his body like he wants to hide him from the world. James’ heart soars; he’s not precious, he’s nothing but a weapon tainted with blood, a shell of what he used to be after so many wipes. And yet Steve sees him and still wants him.

“Steve,” he whines as the man nibbles his hip, his fingers digging into the plump flesh of his pectorals. He licks the length of his cock and takes it in his warm, wet mouth, sucking him like he's made for it. James watches him with wide eyes, Steve’s spit slicked lips pressing open-mouthed kisses along the shaft and his pink tongue dragging down to his balls. It’s messy and so good, James doesn’t hold for long before he cums, Steve milking him dry. He groans in shame and hides his face with an arm, but Steve is chuckling with delight as he straddles his lap.

“Nothing to be ashamed of. I’m flattered, to be honest.”

James snorts, removes his arm so he can look up at his beautiful face. “Come here.” They share lazy kisses while James recovers, which really doesn’t take much time when he has such a gorgeous man on top of him.

“What do you want to do?” Steve asks. He’s started rolling his hips into him, his hard cock rubbing against James’ stomach, and he wants to touch him, taste him, feel him for days.

“I want you inside me,” he groans, mouthing at Steve’s broad shoulder.

“Anything you want, sweetheart.”

After some debating, James rolls on his stomach and props his hips up with a pillow so his leg doesn’t get in the way. Steve drags his hands down his back and palms his ass cheeks, spreading them for his gaze only. James whines, his cock getting harder by the second, and Steve huffs a laughter at his eagerness.

“Patience.”

“I’ll tell you that when I get my hands on you,” James groans, glares at him over his shoulder. Steve merely raises his eyebrows up in interest, softly rubs his thumb against his hole.

“Oh yeah? And what will you do to me?”

James feels like his brain has left the room, all he can focuses on are those big fingers on him, so close to be _in_ him. He puts back down his head. “Kiss and mark you all over, confirm if you taste as sweet as you look.”

Steve laughs and shifts away, to James’ utter deception.

“You can’t tease me and then leave me like this.”

“I’m just getting the lube and condom.” He’s quick to come back, leaning over to pepper his spine with kisses. There’s the click of a bottle being uncapped, and James jerks when cold lubbed fingers return and press into him until he opens up.

He must senses James’ in no mood for more teasing, he stretches his hole quickly, squirts probably too much lube judged by the small swear before he feels the liquid slide from his ass crack down to his balls. It’s tickling.

“I made a mess,” Steve says, sounding flustered.

“I don’t care, just get in me, punk.”

There’s a pause, and just when James starts to think he might have offended him, Steve loudly exhales and slides his hard cock against him once before he aligns himself and uses his weight to push into him, inch by glorious inch. James moans into the mattress at the feeling of being filled so deliciously, the slight ache almost nothing compared to the rush of desire pooling in his groin.

Steve buries his face in his hair, leans on him, and starts a slow, deep pace. He sighs and moans right against James’ ear, their hands entwined together on top of their heads. James turns his head in his haze, meets Steve’s intent blue eyes, his face flustered and his mouth kiss-swollen, and James knows he’s gone for.

He stretches his neck to kiss him messily, licks into his mouth and sucks on his tongue until Steve thrusts harder in him, making James cry out, so he does it again and again. He straightens up and leans on his knees to go faster, deeper. He grabs his shoulders and James arches his back, his leg aching when he leans too much back on it, so he relaxes, grabs Steve's wrists and lets him support him. The bed rattles into the wall with each thrust, but James barely notices it with their skins repetitively slapping loudly together, his cock bouncing in the air.

Steve wraps his arm around his stomach, pulls him flush against him, and the new angle is perfect. James grabs handfuls of his flexing ass and meets his thrusts as best as he can, which is hard and fast. He's sure he'll get bruises from Steve's hipbones.

“Fuck,” Steve gasps. His movements turn desperate, his breathing ragged, and he mouths at James’ neck as he cums, thighs quivering under his hands.

James grins and tugs on his cock, knows he won’t last long after witnessing that. Steve shifts and cups his balls to massage them, his wrist pressed against the side of his dick, the worst kind of tease. He pinches one of James’ nipples with his free hand and jerks in him before he slips free. That’s James’ last straw. He strokes himself fast, biting on his lip to suppress the loud moan he makes as the pleasure in him explodes, pressing back into Steve who’s supporting most of his weight.

Steve plants wet kisses along the side of his face, humming contentedly. James turns in his arms so their lips meet properly, his body relaxed and loose for the first time.

 

 

They doze into the night after that, wrapped around each other. James has a few dreams, meaningless moments with who he assumes are his sisters. They must be old now, if not dead.

He dreams of the door again, just staring at it. There’s something behind it, something important that he should remember, but he can’t. The ridges and pattern of the wood don’t reveal anything, no matter how long he looks.

Why won’t he open it? Is it locked?

He starts getting to his feet, and that’s when the dream shifts and he finds himself looking at the ceiling. He can hear a snowstorm outside, the wind blowing strong on the house and yet, somehow, comforting.

James straightens up and realizes he’s not in Steve’s room anymore, but in the kitchen, right beside the stairs leading to the basement. Has he been sleepwalking? It never happened to him before. What’s more surprising is he’s fully clothed. He frowns.

Is he still dreaming? It feels like it.

He goes to the basement. The stairs creak under his feet despite his carefulness, and he hopes it doesn’t wake Steve up.

He must know the truth.

He just wants to make sure it’s only in his dreams, that the door doesn’t exist but is only some ominous symbol of his broken mind. He fiddles around to find the light switch and flips it on.

It looks as messy as before, boxes all over the place on the floor and in the dusty cupboards aligned against one wall, another occupied by firewood. The wall at the back was blank when he checked the other day, yet now a door stands, quite ordinary-looking for its mystery and the secrets kept behind.

He doesn’t understand how it’s possible. Has it been there the whole time, and somehow, he didn’t see it? It’s just so weird. Reality’s slipping away from him. He presses on, takes the few steps to the door, and places his hand on the knob. It’s cold.

He opens it, walks inside.

It’s a… memorial room. Photos, newspapers articles of Captain America are hung all over the small room.

He approaches the large picture of the Captain hung on the wall, and he stares at the lovely face for a moment, touches the frame. Captain America is Steve.

“Are you sure you’re ready for this, Bucky?” James turns around. Steve is standing in the doorframe, his outfit shifting to a military uniform before turning back to soft-looking sweatpants.

“Who the hell is Bucky?” He barks out, angry. Steve has been hiding this from him, and he doesn’t understand the reason. “Why was this room hidden from me?”

“It wasn’t hidden. It was here all this time.”

There’s paper clips of Captain America touring to recruits soldiers all over the United States, him saving an entire squadron, then his war prowesses in Europe, his comics, his sacrifice to stop a bomb. There’s sketches he’s drawn during the war. A dancing monkey, a woman in a red dress, the Howling commandoes, and a man in a military uniform smiling warmly. Those sketches are the same he’s seen upstairs, all over the house.

That man, he looks familiar…

“That’s me,” he realizes.

“James,” Steve pleads, approaches him carefully. “You don’t have to rush through these, you should take your time.”

There’s a funerary urn on a pedestal made of marble. Whoever’s remains are in it was important. James approaches it.

He traces the words written on it. _Steve Rogers 1913-1945_

“I, I don’t…” His eyes get blurry with tears, but he blinks them away, forces his panic down. He wants to know.

There’s another paper article beside it. _Captain America found dead in Antarctica. A nation in mourning._

James shivers, but he doesn’t feel cold.

“But you’re here. You’re real.”

Steve smiles sadly at him, and James pushes him away. He feels real.

“What is this place?”

“I was waiting for you to be ready, but I was selfish and wanted to keep what we had. This place… those are your memories.”

“That doesn’t make sense. This whole place doesn’t make sense,” James shouts, tugs on his hair.

“If you would just listen—“ 

But James doesn’t want to listen. He wants to get out of this crazy house, run away from this mess. He’s running up the stairs when he realizes he doesn’t have a splint anymore. His leg feels completely fine. Has it ever been injured?

He bursts outside, the snow spiralling around him and making it almost impossible to see anything, but he runs forward. He runs and runs deep into the forest, stumbling a few times in the snow, but he continues forward.

He doesn’t feel the cold. He doesn’t feel the snow or the branches hitting him, the wind whipping his face, as if the world around him isn’t real.

The wind lifts, and he sees something in the distance. He makes his way towards it.

It’s the car that he stole what feels like an eternity ago. It’s completely wrecked, upside down. He gets around to the front.

There’s something buried in the snow in front of it, near a tree. James kneels beside it and begins to dig. He touches fabric and pulls, pulls, until the hidden corpse is free from its makeshift burial. It has long brown hair, most of the strands frozen in ice. James’ fingers tremble as he turns the stiff body over, then he jerks away with a sob.

His own dead eyes stare back at him.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [Tumblr](http://cap-sweet-and-salty-sadness.tumblr.com/).


End file.
